Rosy sat at her desk, back curved, jaw set, Grant Jones' case file spread open before her like a failed exam paper. The fluorescent light above,with all the dead flies in it,threw a whitish glow of the mess on her desk—all the cases Grant had been involved in before his demise.
Nothing. Drugs. Burglaries. Suicide. Bar fights. Muggings. Domestic violence. Car thefts. Vandalism. She rubbed her temples and closed the folder. Forty-eight hours of wasted effort. Lord, what am I missing?
Keane collapsed into the chair beside her, tossing his pen onto the desk. His face was drawn with exhaustion.
"I told you we wouldn't find anything new," he said, stretching his long legs.
Rosy shot him a look. "If that's supposed to cheer me up, it's not working."
"Just saying," Keane replied, a smirk registered on his face. "Sometimes a dead end is just a dead end."
"We're talking about a murdered officer, Keane," Rosy bristled. "A colleague. I'm not about to write him off because the paperwork's inconvenient."
He leaned back, folding his arms. "And I'm not saying we write him off. But we've been staring at the same notes for two days. No witnesses. No forensics. No CCTV worth a damn. The case is colder than the North Sea."
Rosy hated that he was right — hated even more that he enjoyed knowing he was right. "You're awfully relaxed about this."
"I'm realistic," Keane said. "And I value my sleep–even though it doesn't hit the full eight hours standard."
"You go home then. I'll stay and find something we missed." Rosy slammed the folder shut.
Keane's smirk softened as he crossed his knees and planted his elbows on them. "To be honest, if you carry on like this, you'll burn out before we even get close."
"I can't just stop."
Keane sighed. "You know, there's this girl I've been seeing. She says I do this — grind myself down over things that drained the life out of me. Calls it a bad kind of stubbornness."
Rosy froze, caught off guard by the turn in his tone. "You've got a girlfriend now?"
"Yeah," Keane said, tone light, but a hint of pride sneaking in. "Eva. Met her right at my doorstep. She's not into cops though. Real estate. keeps me on my toes."
Rosy crossed her arms. "Sounds like she's got sense."
He gave a thin, crooked smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Maybe. At least she doesn't look at me like I'm wasting oxygen every time we disagree."
"Maybe you stop saying things worth disagreeing with," Rosy submitted flatly.
The intercom crackled at that moment, lancing the tense silence. "Detective Lawson, Detective Keane, Captain Fisher wants you in his office. Now."
Fisher's office carried the familiar scent of order — neatly arranged papers and the faint tang of furniture polish. The police chief stood behind his desk, staring at the two detectives as if weighing whether to scold them or thank them.
"You've been at this case nonstop," he said finally. "And I appreciate it. But I just came from a meeting with the Chief Superintendent. He wants us to move resources onto other priorities."
Rosy felt her stomach drop. "You're telling us to stop investigating a murdered cop?"
"I'm telling you we don't have the luxury to keep spinning our wheels," Fisher said, voice firm. "We've got fresh burglaries piling up, two stabbings on Langley, and now the media is sniffing around asking why nothing's been done."
Keane looked relieved. Rosy looked furious.
"With respect, sir," she said, "Jones deserves better than this."
Fisher's gaze softened, just slightly. "He does. And if we get something new — anything solid — we'll put everything back on it. But for now, I need you both to stand down. Yeah I know, this is personal. But until you have something solid, this investigation isn't top priority. Don't make me pull you off it entirely. We owe this town order."
Rosy clenched her fists at her sides but nodded. "Yessir."
As they walked back toward their desks, Keane gave a half-hearted grin."Look on the bright side, maybe we'll finally get a night off."
Rosy didn't answer. Her jaw was tight, her mind already racing. She wasn't done. She couldn't be. She thought she heard a voice. It was loud in her mind.
Don't give up yet.
*
The car heater hummed softly, but she barely felt the warmth. Her gloved fingers tapped an unhurried rhythm against the steering wheel as she sat in the shadowed corner of the street opposite the Luton Bay Police Department building. She'd been here nearly an hour, parked in the perfect spot where she could see officers come and go without drawing attention. Her eyes narrowed as the station door opened again. Milton Cass stepped out, just like he had every night this week. A small-framed, stoutly built man, narrow-shouldered beneath his navy-blue parka. His head dipped slightly forward, as though the weight of the job itself pressed down on him.
He seemed so reliable. And very predictable. The kind of man who never changed his routine. Her face spread tightly in a smile, the kind of smile that harboured evil within.
Perfect.
She watched him cross the car park to his black Opel sedan. He moved like a man who wasn't afraid of the dark. That arrogance burned her more than she expected, a fuel for what was to come. Her hand hovered over the notebook. She turned the page to the section she'd been keeping just for him, "M.C." at the top. Beneath, a list: departure times, route he took home, where he stopped for takeaway. She knew everything now, down to the brand of cigarettes he bought.
Tonight would be different.